


time of your life

by verity



Category: Sex Criminals, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crimes & Criminals, Drunk Sex, Getting Together, M/M, Masturbation, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:04:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2656421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek stops time when he orgasms. </p><p>So does Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	time of your life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raktajinos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raktajinos/gifts).



> background canon relationships (Derek/Braeden, Derek/Kate)
> 
> this is a fusion with the comic _Sex Criminals_ , which you do not need to have read (although you should, because it's awesome). The premise of _Sex Criminals_ : Susie stops time when she orgasms. So does Jon. They rob banks together.
> 
> warning: there is sex where both parties are drunk but consenting insofar as they can under the influence, and they're both okay with what happened later.
> 
> thanks to Ashe, Luz, & everyone else read along for all their help! <3

After school, Derek slams in the front door and right back out the back, barely taking the time to dump his stuff on the sofa. Out in the preserve, he runs until he finds a clearing, dry wild grasses warmed by the autumn sun. Flopping down on his back, Derek pushes his basketball shorts and boxers down, spits in his hand, and goes to town. He's tried half-a-dozen times in bed, loosely palming his boner as it swelled up against his belly, but he just can't do it at home, where anyone could be listening. Jerking it feels so good, _so_ good, he didn't know _anything_ could feel this good before he started. When Derek comes, the world around him gleams with a pulse of neon lights. Holy shit.

Even the birds have stopped singing.

* * *

He makes it a couple weeks before hormones beat out discretion and he starts doing it in the middle of the night, listening for any stray family noises, mouth wide open to try to keep his fast breaths as quiet as possible. Afterward, he wipes his hand on his sheet and wanders the house aimlessly in the swirling quiet afterward until the big clock in the front hall starts ticking again. He tries to ask Peter about it once—"Hey, when you—does time, uh—stop?"—and Peter laughs in his face. So, no. 

They still don't have the internet at home, so Derek goes the library and tries to bypass the nanny software on the computers there with limited success. Searching the catalogue goes better. "You like weird porn, bro," Laura says when she finds him poring over an anatomical illustration of the clitoris in _Our Bodies, Ourselves_. "Ugh," says Derek.

* * *

(This is how he ends up with a master's degree in Library and Information Science.

But that's later.)

* * *

Derek never gets the kind of close to Paige where you ask your weird sex questions, and he's too intimidated to ask Kate. He spends the long minutes after he comes trapped under her body, pinned by her hips and staring up at her breasts. Sure, he could move her, but then he'd have to explain.

Time starts again and Kate leans down to press a kiss to his jaw, covering his body with hers. "Baby, you're incredible," she says. "I've never met anyone like you."

* * *

After that, it's an escape. When Derek jerks off, he's not in an extended-stay motel room, a series of equally spartan apartments, the floor-through they buy in Brooklyn—he's out of time. Out of this world. Out of his head and into the quiet that follows.

* * *

New York is a big city and Derek's not a monk. He picks up girls and boys at parties and at clubs, fucks and gets fucked in semi-public bathrooms and messy bedrooms and hotels and Central Park. When Laura starts asking questions about where he goes at night, Derek gets a job at a diner and works his way through the staff, hostesses and line chefs and the towel delivery guy. They start coming to him once he gets a reputation—he's a werewolf with supernatural stamina, he can suck dick or eat pussy for an hour without his jaw getting tired. He likes it enough that he stops doing anything else after a while.

If you get someone off enough, usually they don't notice if you don't come, too.

* * *

The ceiling of Derek's childhood bedroom is smoke-stained and charred through in one corner, letting in rain and sun. Derek spends a lot of time look at it, lying on a ratty sleeping bag and thinking about nothing while he jerks off. In the not-time that stretches out after he comes, he shifts and runs a circuit through town. Traffic lights are frozen, cars arrested in motion on the streets, people paused like a streaming video waiting to load. Peter is always paused. Sometimes Scott's at school, sometimes he's at home, trudging through homework or eating or sleeping. Stiles is absent a lot, even when he _should_ be home.

It would be fucked up if Laura turned up in the quiet, if their family appeared. Derek thinks about it a lot anyway. Everyone else is dead, but he's the only one who gets to be a ghost.

* * *

He tries dating again, with Jennifer and then with Braeden. Getting aroused again will bring him out of the quiet, so he focuses on the supple form of Braeden's body, the irresistible curve of her lips as she takes her pleasure, wills himself back into time and the moment. It works well enough for the better part of a year. 

Braeden is nice about it—nicer than Derek expects, nicer than some of the perfectly mundane humans Derek's fucked semi-regularly have been. "This isn't going to work long-term," she says, taking his hand and squeezing as they sit on the couch in the loft. "I'm not planning on settling down and, no offense, sometimes I feel like you're not all here with me, either."

Derek says, "None taken."

* * *

Derek finishes his master's degree online and gets a job at the local library. Scott's pack leaves for college, comes home for the summer, leaves again. Stiles gets back from his year abroad in Hungary with more muscles and the first of his tattoos, a knotted rope that runs the length of his spine. Derek sees it the first time when Scott, Stiles, and Kira strip down in the front lawn of the new house to play frisbee in the afternoon heat. Scott's eyes are all over Kira and her pink sports bra, but Derek can only look at Stiles, the black ink stark against his winter-pale skin. Stiles catches his eye, says, "Like what you see?" and opens his arms, turns around slowly like he's flaunting merchandise.

"The tattoo's new," Derek says. "Tell me about it."

Stiles picks up the frisbee off the grass and says, "Yeah, sometime," but he never gets around to it. The next time Stiles comes home, he's back together with Malia again, and it's easier just to let it go, that brief flash of desire, subsumed beneath the easy banter and the history between them.

* * *

There's a long period where Derek doesn't masturbate at all, which ends when he starts waking up from wet dreams cold and sticky with the alarm clock silent and still next to him. He has one of those old-fashioned clocks with bells and ticking hands; unlike the clock that stood sentry in the house where he grew up, it doesn't chime on the hour, but the steady metronome of the machinery is an equally soothing backdrop, until it isn't.

He gets pretty good at going to sleep in the quiet. It's better than waking up there.

* * *

Scott gets married in Vegas as a compromise. Some of Caroline's relatives drive out from Denver; Melissa and John come up and make a weekend out of it. The rest of the pack trickles in over the course of the week before from jobs and grad programs all over the country: Malia, Kira, Lydia, Liam, Derek, and Stiles, who drives up from LA the night before the bachelor party. He knocks on Derek's door at two in the morning, bag in hand, and says, "Caro and Scott sexiled me."

"There's only one bed," Derek says blearily.

Stiles shrugs.

* * *

In the morning, Derek wakes up slowly. His bed is soft, warm, and full, and the sun is gently stretching across the floor, not quite touching Stiles's shoulder. Stiles is on his side, turned toward Derek, his face in shadow, but Derek doesn't need to see him to know it. As usual, Stiles smells like sage, spunk, and ink; he's been working in a tattoo shop in LA since the arrest they don't talk about shut him out of a criminal justice career. His shoulders and upper arms are still blank canvas, but the tangle of branches that covers each forearm resolves to solid bands around the wrist and roots that stretch down his fingers, slack now and curled against his chest. Derek wants to pull Stiles against him, to shield Stiles's body from the encroaching light of day. As usual, he doesn't.

* * *

"Yeah, I'm emotional and drunk," Stiles says in the elevator that night. "So are you. I wanna make some bad decisions."

Derek doesn't respond because he's busy sucking a mark onto Stiles's neck. 

They make it up to the room, barely. Derek shoves Stiles up against the door and fumbles the buckle on Stiles's belt, unzips Stiles's jeans and tugs them down his hips. Stiles's dick is smaller than he expected, but fatter, just the right weight in Derek's palm. He licks a stripe up Stiles's dick, fists the base as he takes Stiles into his mouth. He pulls off for a moment to say, "You can fuck my throat if you want."

"Hooooly Jesus." Stiles's cheeks are pink, a softer shade than the vivid flush of his dick. "I didn't even know you _liked_ me."

"I'll make it so good for you," Derek promises as Stiles cups the back of his head. 

Stiles and Kira put away a pitcher of sangria by themselves, so it takes Stiles a while to come. When he does, it's with his fingers twined in Derek's hair, thighs trembling beneath Derek's hands, a low moan caught in his throat. Derek closes his eyes and swallows as much as he can, the excess beading on his lips, salty and viscous. He licks Stiles clean and soft, sits back on his heels. 

When Derek opens his eyes, the room is bright and shimmering, and Stiles is staring down at him, glassy-eyed. "Holy shit, you're—what the _fuck_ is happening?"

Derek wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

* * *

"I didn't know there was anyone else like me," Stiles says. "I looked for a while—I definitely, uh, checked."

Derek says, "There's nothing out there about it, nothing written, nothing I could find."

They're in bed now, naked and still kind of drunk on sangria, wolfsbane-infused beer, and the revelation of this shared secret, Derek's second-oldest and deepest. Derek can't keep his hands off Stiles, the long lines of his body, the marks that cover it. There are some on Stiles's thighs that Derek's never seen, a rune in the seam of his groin that Derek can't identify. He wants to know them all, to know Stiles, wholly and truly after all this time. Stiles catches Derek's hand where it's gliding up his side and says, "Want to find out what it's like for everybody else?"

"What?" Derek says, distracted.

Stiles leans in, nudges his nose against Derek's. "Fucking when you don't have Medusa dick. I wanna—"

"Yeah," Derek says. "I—yeah."

Neither of them have anything with them, so Stiles slicks up his fingers with complimentary hotel moisturizer and fingers Derek like that until he's groaning and trying not to hump the mattress, terrified and hopeful and turned on as hell. Stiles is shaking, too, though, when he pushes into Derek. They're lying on their sides, spooning, so close together that Derek can barely tell where Stiles ends and he begins. "Gonna do you so good," Stiles pants into Derek's ear, tightening his arm around Derek's chest as he fucks him in shallow, uneven thrusts. "This is gonna be so—it's gonna be better than your wildest dreams. I'm gonna blow your mind."

Just like that, Derek comes so hard his whole body seizes up, clenching down on Stiles, the air punched out of his lungs. The air glitters, but Stiles just _keeps going_. Fucks Derek right out of this orgasm into the next one before he comes himself with soft, choked moan.

* * *

"Are you seriously telling me you just jack off into Cumworld and lie around feeling sad for yourself?" Stiles says later. A lot later. "That is the most depressing thing I have ever heard."

Derek rubs his cheek against Stiles's shoulder. "Stop calling it _Cumworld_."

Stiles yawns and scratches his belly. "I will call it whatever I want, it's my jizz utopia."

"What do you do, then?" Derek says. "In your 'utopia'?"

Stiles smiles at him, small and genuine before broadening into a grin. "You know what, we're in Vegas. I can show you."

* * *

("Are you fucking kidding me?" Derek stares into the cage. "We are not—this is not _Ocean's Eleven_."

Stiles tosses a stack of banded $20s to Derek. "I'm more of a Han _Solo_ , if you catch my drift."

But that's later.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
